Luka’s gaze was sharp enough to cut through the thin veil of distance between you, his pale eyes unmoving as if he were studying something far deeper than your surface.

The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until it felt like a physical weight pressing against your skin.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t speak. Just stared—long enough that the air around you seemed to grow still, as if even the room was waiting for what he would do next.

Then, without warning, Luka stepped forward. His movements were fluid, almost predatory, and the sudden proximity was disorienting.

His hand found your wrist—not harsh, not gentle, simply firm enough to make retreat impossible.

The subtle brush of his breath reached you before the rest of him did, cool and steady, and then he closed the last sliver of distance.

His fingers shifted, brushing over your side as he pulled you closer until there was no space left to breathe freely.

His head tilted just slightly, a faint curiosity flickering in his eyes before his lips pressed against your cheek.

Not a kiss—far from it.

The pressure was firm, teeth grazing skin for only a second before the sharp sting of a bite bloomed against your flesh. You felt it more than you heard it: the faint scrape, the almost soundless snap of intent behind it.

He drew back slowly, his grip on you loosening but not entirely releasing, his eyes dropping to the fresh mark left behind.

The faint red imprint stood stark against your skin, warmth already seeping into it as the blood rose to meet the insult.

Luka’s expression was unreadable at first—blank, impassive—before his lips moved, his voice cutting through the quiet like a scalpel.

“You have saliva on your face.”

It was delivered without inflection, without ownership, as though the act had been some abstract event you’d simply stumbled into.

His tone gave no hint of apology, no room for accusation, and yet the truth hung between you—he was the one who put it there, and he wasn’t hiding it.

The corners of his mouth didn’t lift, but there was something in the stillness of his expression that felt almost amused.

He leaned back just enough to watch you, waiting. Not for words, but for something else—your reaction, your hesitation, the choice you’d make in the space where most people would protest.

His eyes skimmed over your features like he was reading a private script only he could decipher. You didn’t move, and that seemed to amuse him more than anything.

One hand finally let go of you, his fingers dragging lightly across your sleeve before falling away entirely.

He didn’t step back, though.

Instead, he hovered close enough that the lingering heat of the bite was matched by the faint hum of his presence.

Luka’s gaze flicked once more to the mark, then back to your eyes, as if confirming that you knew exactly what had just happened—and that you weren’t going to stop him if it happened again.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile—and in that flicker of expression, the truth became clear: Luka found it funny.

Not in the loud, obvious way of someone enjoying a joke, but in the subtle, quiet satisfaction of seeing how far he could push before you’d push back.

And in your stillness, in your lack of resistance, you’d given him his answer.